


Suspended in Silence

by Excuse_me_bitch_did_i_stutter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-06-23 04:04:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15597915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excuse_me_bitch_did_i_stutter/pseuds/Excuse_me_bitch_did_i_stutter
Summary: After the third task of the Triwizard Tournament goes horribly wrong, Harriet Potter is left broken and bruised. All her preconceptions about her life and the people in it are shattered, and she doesn't know where to turn. With the help of an unlikely ally, she struggles to find the light in a dark, dark world. (Set during Goblet of Fire) (Female Harry) (Contains dark themes)





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

If anyone had seen the small girl walking through the night with her long, tangled black hair blowing in the wind and a slight, eerie smile tugging at her thin lips, they would have felt an extreme sensation of unease settle over them.

The thin figure was illuminated by the full moon, and beneath its light, she moved slowly yet resolutely through the perfectly landscaped yard, dragging a wooden ladder that appeared as weak and worn as she was. The girl hurled the ladder up against the tree, using all of the strength she possessed and then lifted a snake-like coil from the base of the trunk.

She fastened the rope with intense determination, staring fixedly at the branch of the ancient oak tree. The limb was thick, and it appeared to be more than sturdy enough to support her weight. She slung the long rope vine, consisting of sturdy cords she had found discarded in the Dursley’s garage and tied together, up over the branch and waited patiently for the other end to drop back down to her. Then she adjusted the rickety stepladder slightly, making sure it was steady, and climbed up slowly.

When she had reached a height that was acceptable, she secured the rope around the limb, knotting it several times to assure that it wouldn’t come undone. Then she calmly slipped the noose over her bruised neck and stepped off the ladder.

In the silence of night, the only noise that could be heard was the chilling, subtle creak of her limp body swaying back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.


	2. Chapter 2

She’s almost to the cup. Directly in front of her, across the mounds of vines and jagged rocks, lies the shiny, golden chalice that will ensure her victory. She feels her palms grow sweaty with anticipation. At fourteen years old, she’s going to be the youngest champion to ever win the tri-wizard tournament.

Before this moment, she hadn’t really given much thought to winning; After all, she had been forced to compete in this death trap, and she hadn’t wanted to. But now, with the cup glistening in the sunlight before her, she feels a sense of pride and accomplishment sweeping over her. She brushes a stray lock of shiny, black hair behind her ear and smiles dazedly ahead, envisioning the proud faces on her friends and housemates’ faces when she is crowned the champion.

Then she hears a velvety voice, and she flinches at the sudden noise.

“Uh, Harry?” the boy beside her says, waving a hand in front of her face. She tilts her head up to see the identity of the unwelcome intruder. Cedric stands next to her with a playful smile on his lips. Once again, he has caught her daydreaming, and this time, it wasn’t even about him, but her face still flushes slightly.

“Oh. Hi, Cedric.” She answers slowly, feeling a little disappointed by his presence.

Maybe she wouldn’t win after all. There were three other witches and wizards within the maze, and she should have realized that pausing to stare in awe of the cup wouldn’t be a good game-plan. It was just like her to get distracted by something stupid instead of completing the task at hand; that was the same reason she could never complete her potions homework.

 Neither her nor Cedric make a move toward the goblet. Instead, they look awkwardly at each other, waiting for someone to take the first step.

During the course of the competition, they had become friends. Harriet had warned Cedric about the first task with the dragons, and then during the second task, Cedric had given her a clue about what to do with her egg. After that, they had hung out a few times, studying spells for the competition and trying to figure out what the final task could be. Neither one of them had ever thought it would be a giant maze.

“So,” Harry begins casually. “Are you going to move, or should I?”

Cedric laughs lightheartedly at her tone. “I don’t really know. I mean you did see it first, I would feel kind of bad if I only won because I outran you.”

“That’s true, but it is a competition. Don’t you wanna win?” She teases.

“Well, obviously, but I don’t want to be rude.”

“Classic Hufflepuff,” Harry snorts and rolls her eyes.

She enjoys casually bantering with Cedric. She would never admit it to anyone, but she has a slight crush on the older wizard. He’s seventeen, smart, funny, and not bad to look at either. Standing beside him, her being a foot and a half shorter, her hair disheveled, and her glasses hanging off the edge of her nose, she feels very intimidated.

Cedric just grins and shrugs, accepting the title as a compliment.

“What if we both grab it at the same time?” Harry asks him.

He pauses for a moment before answering. “I guess that’s fair,” he says finally. He reaches a hand out to her, and she takes it, smiling brightly.

“We’ll do it together,” he tells her.

They both walk briskly toward the cup, hand in hand, stepping carefully over the obstacles in their path. Harry stumbles over a jumble of brush, but Cedric’s hand helps her keep her balance, and she doesn’t fall. The golden goblet waits temptingly below them, beckoning them to reach out and grab it.

“On the count of three,” Harry tells him.

They count together, “One. Two. Three.”

Then both their hands shoot out and grip a handle of the cup. Harry feels a strange sensation of something pulling at her insides. She expects to be back at the start of the maze being greeted by cheers of the excited crowd, but when her eyes open, she is in a completely different setting.

Gone are the massive green, bushy walls of the maze. Instead, they find themselves in a clearing. Gone is the warmth and sunshine from the Hogwarts grounds; the air is much colder here, rain drizzles from the grey sky, and fog hangs heavy in the air. Gone is the feeling of excitement and anticipation; it has been replaced with curiosity and apprehension. Up ahead, through the hazy mist, is a worn, gloomy looking house. It is about two-stories tall, with faded grey panels and an abundance of dirty windows. Up a hill to the right are several strange, dark stones and statues covered in moss and arranged in a circular formation.

Harry and Cedric share a bewildered look.

“What’s going on?” Cedric asks her, looking slightly worried.

An ominous feeling settles over Harry. She isn’t sure what, but something definitely feels wrong about this situation. Her lightning scar tingles, and she reaches up a hand to rub her forehead.

“I have no idea. They said all we had to do was grab the cup…. I think it was a portkey.” Harry replies, glancing around. The cup lays near a tall, stone statue, forgotten in the grass.

In the distance, a figure appears through the fog. He is short and stout, and he carries a small bundle in his arms.

“Hello?” calls Cedric, gesturing to the stranger.

The man offers no reply. He just continues walking toward them.

Suddenly, Harry feels a sharp, exploding pain in her head. She lets out a gasp and doubles over in pain.

“Harry? Harry, are you alright?” Cedric exclaims with worry. He places a comforting hand on her back and lowers her into a sitting position on the wet grass. “Harriet, what’s wrong?”

She’s barely able to utter a single word. “Vold-Voldemort,” she stutters. She isn’t sure how she knows, but she’s certain. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is here, and they are in grave danger.      “R-Ru-Run, Cedric!”

He doesn’t run. Without hesitation, he places himself in front of Harry, pulls his wand from his holster, and points it at the man. He puffs out his chest and prepares to attack, but before he can utter a single spell, his wand flies across the clearing and lands in the stranger’s hand.

Harry reaches up and grabs his hand, trying to pull him away, but he won’t budge. She hoists herself up and stands next to him, ignoring the pain radiating from her scar. Cedric stares into her deep green eyes, looking frantic. Then he screams.

It takes Harry a moment to register what has happened. Cedric is thrashing on the ground, letting out screeches of agony. He writhes before her, his eyes locking onto hers and pleading with an expression of pure helplessness. She doesn’t know what to do. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes, and his shrieks increase in volume and intensity. Suddenly, the realization hits her: _The Cruciatus Curse._

The man in front of her, who is now close enough to make out clearly, is using an unforgivable on a teenage boy. She whips out her wand, determined to put an end to Cedric’s pain, but with a flick of the man’s wrist, her wand is gone. He smirks at her with beady eyes and a short, pointed nose.

It’s Peter Pettigrew, her father’s former friend turned Death Eater. She hasn’t seen him since the previous year when he posed as Ron’s pet rat. But now he stands directly in front of her with a confidence she has never witnessed.

Thankfully, when he takes her wand, his hold on Cedric stops, and the boy stops flailing on the ground. He lets out short wheezes of breath, and Harry leans down to try and lift him to his feet. She pulls with all her might, but Cedric is too heavy for her to carry. Harry gives up and attempts to drag him behind the shelter of a big, rectangular headstone instead.

Suddenly, a new voice breaks the tense silence that has fallen. The voice is high and raspy, like a demonic toddler, but its words are strong and harsh. “Wormtail, prepare the elixir,” it commands, and like a dutiful servant, Pettigrew obliges. He ignores Harry and Cedric for a moment, walks to the center of the stones and statues, and conjures a large, pitch-black cauldron filled with a bubbling liquid. He places several ingredients inside, and the pot produces copious amounts of steam at the introduction of the foreign materials.

“Your hand, Wormtail,” It instructs coldly. He looks like he wants to argue with the small, bundled creature, but then, shaking slightly, Pettigrew places his arm over the cauldron. He pulls a long knife from his robe, holds the glistening blade above his wrist, and then—Harry shuts her eyes, knowing what will happen next. She hears the noisy cries from Pettigrew as his left-hand thuds into the cauldron with a splash. When his screeches turn to faint blubbers, Harry peeks at the scene in front of her. The portly man is covered in his own blood, and he struggles to wrap a towel over his gnarled stump. Harry watches with disgust and fear as the man turns to face them.

“Now the girl,” It barks, and Harry feels the hair on her arms stand.

An invisible rope yanks her from her position beside Cedric, and she flies through the air. She thuds against a stone statue where shackles secure her in place. She struggles to escape, wiggling her arms and legs with fervor, but her efforts are futile. Another spell shoots from Wormtail’s wand and her robe vanishes, leaving her only in a tank top and a pair of black boy shorts. She shivers in the cold, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cedric attempting to get up and help her. His face is beet red and his eyes are bloodshot, but there is determination evident in his movements.

“The boy too?” Wormtail asks, the first hint of hesitation seeping into his voice.

“Secure him. We can use him later.”

With a flick of Pettigrew’s wand, Cedric lands with a thud against a stone opposite of Harry. His body quakes harshly against his restraints.

Wormtail inches closer to Harry and pulls the giant dagger from his robes. Then, slowly he lifts the blade to her exposed forearm and slices with one fluid motion. Immediately, a fountain of blood gushes from her arm and glides across her body, staining her clothes with red.

Harry bites the inside of her cheek and forces herself not to scream. The gash in her arm stings horribly, but she doesn’t want to give Pettigrew or that creature the satisfaction. She feels a bit of blood pooling in her mouth, and she swallows it, grimacing at the strong, coppery flavor. A single tear trails from the corner of her eye and slides down her cheek.

Wormtail grabs a vial and places it underneath Harry’s arm. Her blood streams into the container like water from a tap, filling it quickly, and Pettigrew dumps the crimson liquid into the cauldron. Then he lifts the bundled creature with the only hand he still has and drops him inside the mixture.

At first, nothing happens. The air is silent and still all around them. Then, inside the cauldron, something jolts. A flash of light erupts from the pot as it hisses and spits just before a head emerges from the liquid.

The face is disfigured, melted, and malformed. Strong jaw bones jut out from below a wide, clown-like smile. The nose is nearly nonexistent and consists only of small slits. The eyes are a deep, dark red, lined with a myriad of thick eyelashes. He steps completely out of the bubbling concoction, exposing his full-length body and peers around his surroundings. Wormtail drops to his knees and bows down to him, but he only seems irritated by the man’s actions and turns away.  He disregards Cedric, seeming to think him insignificant, but he is mesmerized by Harry.

“Harriet Potter,” he whispers, exchanging the high, childlike hiss for a deeper, manlier tone. “The girl who lived.” A satisfied, gleeful smile settles onto his face.

She stares back at him with contempt, trying to calm the tremors that radiate throughout her body. Voldemort steps closer, running a long, claw-like hand tenderly across her cheek. Harry freezes under his touch and clenches her eyes closed. She has to do something. She has to find a way out of this.

“Don’t touch me,” she spits, trying to seem braver than she really is.

Voldemort lets out a mirthless chuckle, and then his expression darkens. He speaks clearly and confidently. “Stupid girl,” he hisses. “I will do whatever I want.”

The threat from the man hangs heavy in the air like the dense fog. Harry doesn’t speak; she can’t seem to remember how. Her body feels numb with fright, and she is unable to gain control. It’s as if she’s suspended underwater, only seeing and hearing in blurry pictures and muffled sounds.

The girl is only faintly aware of the demon-like man in front of her and the unfamiliar words he is shouting. But then there are people all around, a crowd of adults in dark costumes. They move toward her, grinning like Cheshire cats.

Then more words. More words that Harry does not hear. And then an angry shout and hot breath on her cold face. And then a slap that jostles her limp body roughly against the stone statue. And then a roar.

“PAY ATTENTION!”

The fog in her mind dissipates, and Harry clearly sees Voldemort’s face inches from her own. His grotesque features are contorted into an expression of pure fury that sends a new wave of tremors down her bony spine.

The fear must have shown in her eyes, for the wizard’s sick smile returned.

“Look who’s here, Harry,” he says, gesturing to the solitary figures that stood in a circle around them. “They’re all here for you. To watch the girl-who-lived, the brave savior of the wizarding world. But that’s not who you are. You’re an insignificant child, a pathetic excuse for a witch. You are nothing.”

“Then what’s the point?” Harry asks, surprised to hear her own voice responding to the deranged man. “If I’m nothing, then why make a big show of it? Why bring in all these people to watch you do whatever you’re going to do to me?”

Harry is proud that her voice doesn’t falter. The fear that she felt was not present in her words.

“I’ve brought my Death Eaters to show that you are not a threat to any of us. The fact that you lived to see your second birthday was a fluke and nothing more. I brought them here to watch you die.”

He grips the glistening dagger, still stained with her blood, and raises it to her throat. She can feel the cool metal threatening to puncture her soft flesh, but she does not cry out. If she must die this way, then she will at least die with dignity.

“Get away from her,” a boy’s voice yells.

It takes Harry a moment to realize that it’s Cedric. She had forgotten that he was there.

Voldemort hesitates for a moment, still staring longingly at her. There is something gleaming in his eyes that Harry doesn’t like, some sinister presence that makes her stomach roll. But then he calmly turns with the grace and precision of a ballet dancer and glares at Cedric. With a forward motion seemingly as casual as waving a hand, he plunges the knife deep into the boy’s neck.

The blade slices clean through his flesh and hits the stone on the other side with a clink. Cedric’s eyes bulge widely, and his mouth opens to scream, but no sound escapes. Instead a river of crimson floods from his mouth and dribbles onto the ground. He gasps for air, clawing at his neck as blood spurts wildly from his wound, bathing his body and its surrounding area in red.

Harry hears a feral cry split through the air and it takes her a moment to realize that it came from her own mouth. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t make a sound, but that was before. Now, Cedric is dying.

The boy continues to struggle, making choked gurgling sounds that make Harry want to vomit. Their eyes lock for a moment, and Cedric sends out a desperate plea with his gaze.  

“CEDRIC! CEDRIC! NO!” Harriet screams frantically.

Her words elicit a roar of laughter from the surrounding crowd that makes her blood boil. She struggles even harder against her restraints, and the shackles dig into her wrists, tearing her flesh, but she is powerless to help him.

Eventually Cedric’s eyes roll backward and his head slumps forward to rest on his chest. Harry lets out one final scream of anguish and her body shakes with sobs.

 Cedric is dead, and it’s her fault. She was the one who’d convinced him to grab the cup. She was the one Voldemort wanted. He didn’t have to die.

But he was dead. The boy that had helped her study, and made her laugh, and danced with her at the ball, and held her hand, and tried to protect her from Voldemort was gone. He was one of the kindest and most intelligent people she’d ever met. He was so young. He had a family. And he was dead because of her.

Hot tears well up in her eyes and obstruct her vision. She clenches them closed tightly, hoping to never see the image of Cedric’s corpse again. Perhaps Voldemort will kill her quickly. He’ll blast her with the killing curse, and then it’ll all be over. It will be as simple as falling asleep.

She waits for death.

And she waits.

And she waits.

But death doesn’t come.

She decides to take a peek, and immediately regrets it.

The Death Eaters are all gathered closer, staring in awe at Cedric’s lifeless form. Some are smiling maliciously. Others are outright laughing. He is no longer attached to the statue. Instead he is on the ground, splayed awkwardly with his arm extended at an unnatural angle.

One robed figure moves toward him and kicks him. His corpse twitches horrifically and then rolls down the small hill, leaving a trail of red through the grass. The crowd cheers and laughs harder. The figure jumps up and lands on Cedric’s chest and a great fountain of blood shoots into the air from his wound. Some of the Death Eaters are clutching their sides at the gruesome display.

“STOP IT!” Harry sobs. How could anyone be so cruel?

One cloaked figure takes a step toward her and lets out a feminine snigger.

“Aww. Was Cedric your boyfriend?” She simpers.

“I don’t think so,” a broad-shouldered man snorts. “He could do much better than her.”

The woman howls with laughter and plays idly with a strand of Harry’s dark hair. “Poor girl. Your crush is dead. You’ll never earn his love now.”

Harry can’t seem to stop the tears that flow down her cheeks. Her lower lip shudders pathetically as she attempts to compose herself.

Voldemort watches the exchange with an indiscernible expression. Then he whips out his wand and the woman collapses onto the ground. His bright red eyes gleam with ferocity as the female death eater writhes in pain. Her shrill screeches seem to go on for several minutes and then Voldemort turns away as if disgusted by her. He waves the crowd back with a threatening glare and moves toward Harry. With his blood-stained hand, he gently wipes the tears from her face.

“Are you afraid?” He whispers threateningly.

Harriet isn’t sure how to respond. If she nods, it will likely encourage him. But if she shakes her head, she may anger him even more. She settles for leaving him without an answer. Harry stares blankly ahead, refusing to look at the murderer beside her.

This is apparently the wrong choice, as Voldemort flicks his wand at her arm and she feels the bone in her upper left arm snap with a sickening crunch.

“You will answer me when I speak to you. Understand?”

This time, Harriet nods, gasping for breath.

“Do you know how it feels to have the world believe that I, the most powerful wizard of all time, was defeated by a sniveling child?” Voldemort hisses. “It’s humiliating!”

The man shoots a spell at the statue behind Harriet and it explodes, sending tiny fragments of rock flying through the air. The blast sends Harry sprawling to the ground, and the minuscule shards rain down on her, littering her body with small cuts.

Harry starts to lift herself, preparing to run, but Voldemort is quicker. A yellow light springs from his wand and slams into her. She feels herself rising into the air, suspended in a bubble of air.

“My own followers believe me to be incompetent,” He roars.

Voldemort breaks the spell, and Harry falls several feet and strikes the ground painfully.

“You’ve nearly taken everything from me, and you’ve humiliated me, Harriet Potter. Crucio!”

A bright burst of red shoots toward her, and pain explodes all over her body. Harry has never experienced anything like it. The pain is much worse than the sting of a belt whipping against her bare skin or a knife ripping through her flesh. It’s as if every cell and every nerve is on fire. She’s burning from the inside out.

Shrill howls of pain escape from her throat. Her body convulses and flails beneath the light of his wand. She wishes for death to come and grant her a reprieve from the agony.

“And now, I’m going to show you what that’s like. I’m going to take everything from you, every last trace of dignity. No one will ever be able to question my strength again.”

Harry continues to writhe on the ground until the spell is lifted. Her body still feels the sting of the flames, and each movement is hell. She needs to run. She needs to escape. She can’t.

“Do you have any idea what I have planned, Harry?” Voldemort says with a gleeful smile.

Harry is barely able, but she manages to shake her head slightly.

That means that what she’s experienced is only the beginning. The knife and the shattered bone in her arm is nothing. The torture curse wasn’t even the finale. How could anything be worse than the Cruciatus?

She doesn’t want to know what he has planned. She knows that whatever the twisted man has dreamt up will be something out of a nightmare. Harry doesn’t’ know what he’s going to do. She only knows one thing: She’s going to die.

“We’re going to have some fun,” he snarls. “We’re going to put on a show. Loverboy may be dead, but don’t worry, I can give you everything that he never would.”

At first, she isn’t sure what he means.

The hulking figure stalks closer, wearing an elated smirk that reminds her of a possessed clown. He kneels down beside her, running his hands along the length of her body.

Harriet tenses. Her body has frozen. Her heart has stopped.

No. No. No. Surely, he isn’t going to do what she thinks he’s going to do. Surely even a man this deranged wouldn’t do such a thing. She’s only fourteen; she’s a child.

But then what little clothes she has are gone, and the hands are on her, and she finally understands what it must feel like when a dementor sucks out your soul.

She tries to escape at first, but the man is too strong. He pins her to the damp earth and wraps strong hands around her windpipe until she sees black splotches. He tugs on her hair and grabs at her flesh.

Harry’s body is too weak to move. She can only stare up toward the sky.

She hears laughter, and jeers, and grunts. But she only sees the sky. The sky is grey.

She feels pain like a knife ripping through her body. Harry wails. But she only sees the sky. The sky is like an endless sea of darkness.

A jumble of hands and limbs and skin encapsulate her. She feels like she’s drowning. But she only sees the sky. The waves of gray are carrying her away. The sun is nowhere to be seen.

Harry’s tears roll slowly down her cheeks.

“Scream and cry all you like, Harry. I enjoy it,” the voice whispers in her ear.

Harry sinks deeper and deeper. But she only sees the sky. The grey is all around her and inside her and everywhere. Where is the sun?

Harriet can’t stop screaming. But she only sees the sky. She only sees, hears, and feels grey.

The sun is gone forever.


	3. Chapter 3

Severus paces anxiously in the headmaster's tent with a scowl, feeling dread bubbling up within his center.

It's been over an hour since the two Hogwarts champions disappeared from the maze, and it's been nearly thirty minutes since he felt his dark mark burning for the first time in more than a decade.

He tucks a strand of his greasy, dark hair behind his ear and sighs loudly. The girl is undoubtedly dead. He knows it as well as he knows the ingredients in a pepper-up potion. Lily's child, the one child that he had sworn to protect, is gone. He has failed.

Albus, the bumbling idiot, hasn't done practically a thing since the two students vanished.

The crowd of students, parents, and ministry officials had been watching the progress of the champions through the maze on a massive screen hovering in front of the stands. They had been understandably upset when the two dots labeled Harriet Potter and Cedric Diggory had approached the Triwizard Cup only to be erased from the map. As time passed, the onlookers grew increasingly irritated, and Albus had the gall to stand in front of them all and tell them that everything was okay.

Severus sneers. Everything is certainly not okay.

Not only had the old man refused to acknowledge that there was a problem, he had expressly forbidden Severus to apparate to the Dark Lord when he'd felt the mark searing on his skin.

"Give it time, Severus," He had insisted.

So, Severus had waited. And waited. And he was still waiting. But waiting for what? He did not know.

At this point, his Dark Mark stands out so starkly against his pale skin that it is impossible to ignore. His forearm is a violent shade of red, and the mark is growing increasingly painful. But still, he is forced to wait in the tiny tent.

Finally, Dumbledore enters and stares at Severus with a grave expression. The Potions Professor greets him with a nod and then watches him curiously, searching for some sort of explanation for his behavior. He knows that the headmaster has returned from speaking with the Minister for Magic, but it is clear from the old man's body language that the conversation must not have gone well.

"Cornelius has agreed to keep everyone for another hour," the old man begins.

Severus doesn't understand what the old man is plotting. Why does he insist on keeping the crowd around waiting? He must have a hidden agenda.

"What good will that do, Albus? You know as well as I do that the Dark Lord isn't going to let them go. If only you'd let me go to him, perhaps I could-"

Albus cuts him off. "No, Severus. You will go to Voldemort, but not yet."

"When?" He asks irritably. "The Dark Lord will notice that I am missing."

"You must tell him that you were with me at the time, that I forced you to stay. You couldn't get away without blowing your cover. It would have been suspicious if you had been able to disappear on a moment's notice. This will only increase your credibility as a spy. It is all part of the plan."

"But by the time I get there, Potter will be dead. Is that part of your plan?" He asks scathingly.

The old man pauses to take a deep breath, as if preparing himself to deliver bad news. His light blue eyes are teeming with darkness.

"Severus, no matter what state she is in when you arrive, you mustn't intervene."

Severus is astonished. Has the old coot gone mad?

"Are you telling me not to save Potter?"

The elderly man had placed Potter on a pedestal above all others for the past fourteen years, and now, suddenly, he didn't care. It made no sense.

Albus let out a sad sigh. "Alas, if you are able to save her with little risk, then you should do so. However, I do not want your position as spy to be known. If it comes down to one or the other, then you'll have to let the girl go."

"You'd just let her die?"

His words come out much harsher than he intended, but his question is genuine. Was Albus Dumbledore, leader of the light, condemning the death of a child that he claimed to love? Did he honestly not care?

"Trust me, my boy, there are things that you don't yet know. Before the course of this war is over, the girl must die anyway."

Severus gapes at him. He is unable to even ask why.

Albus seems to sense his inability to speak and answers his unspoken question. "I believe she may be a horcrux, Severus."

Albus explains about the diary found two years earlier. He describes the Dark Lord's affinity to achieve immortality. He rationalizes Harry's strange ability to speak Parseltongue. But still, with all the evidence presented, Severus can't get past the fact that Lily's child must die.

"Surely there is a way to spare her, some way to expel the horcrux and destroy it," he insists desperately. "There must be a solution."

"No, Severus. The girl must die. It doesn't have to be today, but I fear that it may already be too late for her. We shouldn't sacrifice your valuable position as a spy to prolong her inevitable death. You must vow to me that you won't intervene. You must make the unbreakable vow."

As much as Severus doesn't want to, as much as his brain screams at him to turn and run from the tent, he knows that he must follow the old man's orders. He reluctantly performs the unbreakable vow, feeling far more disgusted with himself than he has ever felt before.

After his vow, he is free to go. Severus rushes to the edge of the grounds, dons his death eater apparel, and apparates, appearing a moment later in an unfamiliar graveyard. He is immediately assaulted with the sound of gut-wrenching, adolescent screams.

It's her. It's Lily's daughter.

She is sprawled on her back in the grass, looking straight up with unfocused emerald eyes, Lily's eyes. Her dark, tangled hair is fanned out around her face and its filled with grass and debris. Though her mouth is letting out wails of agony, the rest of her body is tense and motionless. It's as if she's been frozen. If it weren't for the screaming, he'd think she was dead.

She is completely nude, and Severus feels so uncomfortable that he forces himself to look at the Dark Lord instead. It is not a pleasant sight. He is partially covered by a black robe, but it is clear that he is naked beneath it. The man hovers over the body of the teenage girl, violating her in the most inhumane way. With each shriek from the girl, he lets out a shout of glee.

Bile rises in the back of Severus's throat, and he wants more than anything to intervene. He needs to save Lily's child. But he can't. He knows that he'd be struck dead the second he chose to take action.

Noticing his presence, The Dark Lord's head whips to the right to smirk at Severus.

"Ah, Severus Snape," he hisses. "You've nearly missed the show."

A flash of recognition appears in the girl's eyes at the mention of his name, but then the spark is gone, and her gaze is dead again.

"I apologize, My Lord. I was unable to escape without prompting suspicion to my loyalties."

"I understand, Severus. But you know the punishment for being late. Crucio."

Severus's screams join Harry's as he flails uncontrollably beside her. It's been years since he was subjected to the torture curse, and it is no easier to withstand than before. But after what feels like hours, the spell is lifted, and he struggles to get back to his feet.

When he is finally able to stand he sees that the Dark Lord has finished with the girl. Even after he gets off of her, she continues to wail, although, she has gone hoarse from the yelling, and the only sounds emitting from her throat are high-pitched wheezes.

"Harriet?" The Dark Lord croons wickedly. "I hope you enjoyed our fun together. I have one last gift for you. Bring me the dagger, Wormtail," he commands.

A portly man that Severus hasn't seen in over a decade wobbles unsteadily toward the Dark Lord, holding out a small silver knife.

"I know you're familiar with knives by now, Harry, but this one is special. It's enchanted so that any cut made will never heal. It will forever look as fresh as the day you received it. I hope you weren't intending on having an open casket funeral, but I suppose you can wear a sweater," He snickers. "I thought it would be nice if you had a new scar to remember me by."

With those words, the man makes the first slice into the girl's pale flesh. He starts near her collarbone and makes a long gash down her chest. Then he adds a horizontal line, and it is soon clear that he is spelling something. It only takes the first two letters for Severus to decipher what he is writing.

The words LORD VOLDEMORT are being carved across the girl's chest and torso in grotesque, capital letters. He is branding her.

Surprisingly, Harry doesn't even seem to notice the cuts. She just stares blankly at the sky, ignoring everything around her, even as the blood runs from her chest in thick rivulets. She doesn't even bat an eye.

The fact that the girl has become so used to the pain that she is immune to someone carving out her flesh is extremely disturbing. How much can one child take?

The Dark Lord seems to realize that the girl isn't conscious enough to pay attention to him any longer, so he begins to speak to his Death Eaters instead.

"So now you see. You see that the girl-who-lived is nothing but a story. And soon, the world will see as well. They will see that I have returned, more powerful than ever, and they will see that Harriet Potter is dead. Her body will be hanging from the door to the Ministry by morning."

The surrounding crowd begin to clap and Severus joins in. He knows that the end is coming for Harry, and he is grateful. The poor girl deserves some peace.

"Are you ready, Harry?" The Dark Lord asks merrily.

When Potter doesn't respond, he seems to realize that she is incapable and smirks. He lifts his wand in the air and, still grinning, sings, "Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light erupts from his wand and strikes Harry's already motionless form with such force that her corpse rolls down a steep hill and rests at the bottom near another body. Severus recognizes the boy bathed in blood beside her as Diggory.

I'm sorry Lily, Severus thinks. He wishes more than anything that he could have spared her daughter all the pain that had been inflicted before her death. He had never liked the girl, but no child, not even Potter's, deserved to be tortured in such a barbaric way.

And now she lies on the damp earth, abandoned like trash. Her pale skin is covered in red and her body is exposed for all to see. It's abominable.

The Death Eaters are laughing and congratulating the man with the red eyes, and Severus forces himself to join in, but then he calmly excuses himself, insisting that Dumbledore will be suspicious if he is gone much longer.

The Dark Lord doesn't seem to mind, he is still basking in the glory of his triumph over a defenseless teenage girl.

Severus takes one final glimpse at the girl lying limp in the grass, noticing that her glasses have fallen off, making her resemblance to Lily much more apparent than he has ever realized. The lifeless green eyes are forever burned into his mind.

He disappears on the spot, thinking as the blur of images swirl around him. Is there really nothing that he could have done? Deep down, he knows that he should have done something.

He should have opposed Dumbledore and came on his own terms. He should have attempted to overpower the Dark Lord and gone down fighting. He should have died for her.

By the time he arrives back at Hogwarts, he feels as though he's already dead.

 


	4. Chapter 3

Splayed on her side in the thick field of grass, Harriet begins to stir. Her heart races with unnatural speed beneath her exposed chest, and behind her closed lids, her eyes dart wildly around, only seeing darkness. She is lost in a panicked state of unconsciousness until she begins to feel different sensations pervading through the blackness.

Cold. The frigid air nips at her uncovered flesh, bringing about goosebumps across her arms and legs. She resists the urge to shiver, though she isn’t sure why.

Pain. Hot, aching throbs travel across her body like shocks of electricity. A soft whimper threatens to escape from her lips, but she holds it back, becoming increasingly aware that she shouldn’t draw attention to herself.

She begins to register noises from all around her. The wind howls as it whips through the trees, and soft, muffled voices ring out nearby. Next comes a deep, ominous chuckle that sends an involuntary shiver down her spine.

Harry recognizes its owner. Voldemort.

Everything suddenly rushes back to her and hits her with such force that she nearly gasps. She remembers Voldemort. She remembers where she is. She remembers what has occurred.

But how is she alive?

Harry recalls the flash of green light blazing toward her, much like she’s seen in her nightmares. It was the killing curse.

But she has survived. Again.

Harriet doesn’t dare move, fearing that the rambunctious crowd will spot her, but she bravely cracks open her eyes and peers out of thin slits.

The absence of the weight resting atop her nose tells her that her glasses are gone, and the blurry world emerges around her. She silently curses her crappy eyesight. From her position on the ground, she can see very little. The blades of grass block out her vision with horizontal stripes of green.

Tilting her head very slightly, Harry is able to see a large object lying straight ahead. It’s a pale cream topped with dark brown, but a sticky-looking, red substance stains it’s lower half. No, not a pale lumpy object. She makes out a light grey eye and the sharp point of a nose. It’s a face. Harry clenches her eyes shut again. It’s Cedric’s head.

Another flood of guilt crashes over her, but this time, she doesn’t cry. It’s as if all the tears have already been expelled from her body. She feels as though she may never cry again.

She cranes her neck upward, hoping that Cedric will become a forgotten blemish in her periphery. When her eyes open again, she is distracted by a glowing blue form lying several feet ahead. It isn’t very large, and if it weren’t glistening so brightly, Harry probably wouldn’t have even noticed it. The pastel blue looks familiar, but her foggy brain can’t seem to place it. She sees flashes of a handsome yet terrified face, wide, bulging eyes, and red. Harry stares in consternation at the object for a while, rifling through her memories, but all she can concentrate on is Cedric choking on his own blood.

If only she hadn’t insisted that he take the cup…

Wait… She envisions the shimmering goblet that she’d lunged for only hours before with its rounded shape, golden body, and bright blue handles. She remembers how it had carelessly been discarded in the grass when she and Cedric had appeared in the graveyard. Can it really be there, only steps away?

She makes herself believe that it is true. It’s her only hope for escaping.

But can she even make it to the cup? Her body is weak, and she isn’t even sure that she is capable of walking. If she flops around and catches the eye of a Death Eater or even worse, Him, then it will all be over.

But she has to try.

Harry takes a deep breath, positioning her feet underneath herself, and she lurches forward. Feeling as though she is moving in slow motion, she watches as the distance between herself and the goblet wanes. Unfortunately, her movements are uncoordinated and sloppy, and she falls several feet short. Her broken arm twists painfully beneath her chest, but she keeps moving forward with her face scrunched up in determination.

Her body shakes with the effort of her movements, and her legs are too wobbly to stand, but she inches forward like an infant crawling for a toy. She passes Cedric’s corpse, grimacing when she sees his arm twisted unnaturally upward.

Harry knows that they must have noticed her by now, but she doesn’t stop to look. They must be coming for her. She only has seconds to reach the cup.

She reaches forward and nearly brushes the edge of the handle. Just a little farther.

There’s a shout of panic in the distance, followed by a furious snarl. They know she’s alive.

This is her only chance. She uses the last of her momentum to launch herself ahead. Her body lands sideways, but her left hand closes around the handle. Making a quick decision, she snatches Cedric’s upturned arm with her right hand and feels herself being whisked away right before several spells slam into the spot she had just occupied.

 

* * *

 

The crowd around the maze dwindles at an exponential rate as the curious, yet irritated attendants to the third task traipse from their seats and begin heading toward the castle. The annoyed buzzing of the crowd sets heavy in the air, and Severus glowers at the sound in disgust.

He is aware that the people in the stands know nothing of what has just occurred, but his rational mind is being clouded by the atrocity he has witnessed. His icy glare attacks everyone who passes by, including a small-looking first year who appears as though he is about to burst into tears from the professor’s infuriated expression alone. The frightened expression of the child only adds to his sour mood.

He can’t get the girl’s damn hollow eyes out of his head. The emerald orbs seem to be burned into his retinas.

Severus glances over at Albus with a nasty scowl, still cursing the man for his actions, but the older man’s eyes are cast down. His normally twinkling eyes, stare dully toward the ground, still shining with unshed tears.

It is difficult not to lash out at Albus, but Severus controls himself, knowing that the man has only done what he believed was necessary. It must have been horribly difficult for him to let the girl go, for he had obviously cared for her. But still, Severus refuses to forgive him; he refuses to believe that there had been no other option.

When Severus had first relayed his story to Albus, the man had appeared shocked by the cruelty that Voldemort had displayed. It was clear that he never imagined Potter would be subjected to such torture before she died.

“Severus, I didn’t know,” he had practically sobbed.

It had taken several minutes for the older wizard to compose himself, and since then, his spirit has dissipated and his shoulders hang in a constant slump. It is unnerving to see the powerful Albus Dumbledore in such a pathetic state.

There is no use waiting at the maze any longer. There is nothing left to be done. Severus places a consoling, yet firm hand on the headmaster’s shoulder and ushers him toward the castle.

They’ve just taken the first few steps up the path when Severus hears a thud behind them, and his head automatically snaps around to find the source of the noise.

Harriet Potter.

At first look, she resembles a possessed, demonic child out of a muggle horror movie with her long, dark, tangled hair hanging limply around her face and her pale flesh stained with blood. Her eyes are wild and bloodshot, and shrill shrieks of panic tumble from her lips in a hoarse whisper as she clings to the lifeless body of Cedric Diggory.

Severus watches her with shock, as if searching for a sign that she isn’t real. He takes in every detail from her trembling hands to her tear-stained face.

He is pulled out of his stupor when the first shout of confusion erupts from somewhere nearby. Everyone who hasn’t yet left the area is turning to stare at the girl.

Acting on impulse, Severus constructs a large spherical wall that shields her from the crowd. No one should ever see her like this. She has already been through enough.

Severus charges toward her with the headmaster on his heels, and he conjures a soft blanket to cover her shivering body. With gentleness that he didn’t know he possessed, Severus drapes the green blanket over the girl and kneels down beside her, assessing her condition.

“Harriet, are you alright?” Albus asks, taking one of the girl’s shaking hands.

Of course, she isn’t alright, Severus thinks. After what she’s experienced, there is no way in hell that she is okay.

Potter doesn’t even appear to have heard the headmaster; she just continues whispering in a raspy voice. Severus can hardly understand her, but he believes that she is whispering into the ear of the dead boy beneath her.

“Cedric. Cedric, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Mmmy fault… So sorry.”

“Harriet,” Albus starts again. “Mr. Diggory is gone. We need to get you to Madame Pomfrey.”

The old man reaches over and lifts her face to meet his. She recoils at first to his touch but then appears to recognize him.

“It was Voldemort,” she murmurs frantically. “Voldemort’s back… Killed Cedric. I tried to fight him. I did… Mmm so sorry.”           

Potter buries her face into the dead boy’s chest again, and it takes several minutes for Albus to coax her out.

“Harry, you need to come with us,” he says firmly.

At the mention of “us”, the girl seems to notice Severus for the first time. Her eyes go wide with fright, as if anticipating an attack, and she tugs at the headmaster’s hand.

“Snape’s one of them! He’s a Death Eater! He was there!” She cries, her voice still rough and dry.

Severus does not show it, but the girl’s comments sting. It is unnerving to see Potter so afraid of him. They’ve never gotten along, and he’s definitely made some regrettable choices in dealing with her, but he has never tried to harm her.

“No. I assure you, he is not. He’s a spy, Harry. He is loyal to me.”

“No,” she insists, shaking her head furiously. “He was there. He watched.”

Her voice cracks on the word watched, and Severus lifts himself from the ground. He can’t be here. He can’t look at the girl knowing that she knows he was there and did nothing. Severus feels disgust gnawing from within the pit of his stomach.

“I know,” Albus replied sadly. “He was instructed not to intervene. Trust me, he is not loyal to Voldemort. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He would have helped you if he could.”

“But…”

Potter appears at a loss for words. She looks like she wants to argue more with the headmaster, but she seems to lack the energy to do so. She sinks back into the grass, still shaking slightly, the fight in her all gone.

Albus points his wand at the girl, and begins the words to a levitation charm, but at the sight of the wand, the girl curls into herself, rocking and sobbing.

“No,” she screams. “No. No. No.”

“Calm down,” the headmaster prods, but the girl is inconsolable. “We need to get you to Madame Pomfrey. I just need to cast a spell so that you can be safely transported.”

“NO!” Potter shrieks again. She is so upset, that she is hyperventilating; her face is turning a sickly shade of blue.

Albus sighs and runs a hand through his long, silver hair. “Can you walk, Harry?”

The girl sniffs loudly and attempts to rise, but she fails miserably and crumples back to the ground. Her eyes are drooping, and she looks absolutely drained.

After more gentle words from the headmaster, the girl still refuses to have the spell cast on her, but she eventually agrees to be carried to the hospital wing. The old man scoops her from the ground and holds her awkwardly to his chest.

The headmaster is not a strong man, and Severus is almost amused by the absurdity of the situation. He doubts that Albus and Potter will even make it into the castle before the old man’s knees collapse, and he too is in need of the hospital wing.

“Severus, please fetch Cornelius and tell him about the body. Someone will have to inform the Diggorys.”

He nods tensely at the man, dropping the shield that hides them all from view. All at once, the shouts of the crowd assault his eardrums and people rush forward to gaze upon the girl-who-lived.

Cradled within the headmaster’s arms, she quivers and buries her face into the old man’s robes, obviously disturbed by all of the eyes on her. Albus seems to notice her distress, and his voice rings out loudly across the pitch.

“EVERYONE STAY BACK!” he booms, and the circle of people that surround him all take a step backward. “I need to get her to the hospital wing.”

With that, the man takes off up the path toward the castle, but Minister Fudge stands in his way bombarding him with questions.

“Not now, Cornelius. She’s in major need of medical attention.”

The Minister wrinkles his forehead and frowns. “I need some sort of explanation for all this,” he insists, not moving from his position.

The headmaster sighs, glancing down at Potter. “Voldemort has returned.”

Minister Fudge flinches at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name. “That’s impossible,” he sputters.

“I assure you that it is not.” Albus says evenly. “Now, I must kindly ask you to move.”

“Not until I have a reasonable explanation!” The man’s eyes travel to the trembling girl. “Maybe I should ask Ms. Potter.”

“She is badly injured,” Albus starts, but the Minister cuts him off.

“If you will not tell me the truth, then I’ll have to hear it from the girl.”

Severus cannot stand idly by any longer. Potter needs medical attention. He struts in front of the headmaster and thrusts out his arms.

“Give her to me, Albus. I’ll take her to Poppy while you deal with him,” he snarls, sending a scowl toward the Minister.

The headmaster appears as though he wants to object, but he glances down at Potter, whose eyes have now drifted closed, and nods slowly, handing her over.

Severus holds her tightly to him, moving at a brisk pace. He moves past the crowd, past the castle doors, and up a staircase, still focused on the small, cold bundle in his arms.

Up close, even with her bright green eyes shut, her face is purely Lily’s. The slight curvature at the tip of her nose. The delicate, high cheekbones. The spritz of freckles that dot her cheeks. How had he ever thought she looked like Potter? Aside from the messy dark hair and the glasses, she bears no resemblance to him.

He spends so much time studying her face that his foot catches on a stair and he falters for a moment, only barely able to remain on his feet.

Potter jolts awake and her green eyes snap open, staring blankly upward. Her gaze is unfocused and settled on the ceiling. She doesn’t seem aware of her surroundings.

Perhaps that is for the best. It’s definitely better than her staring at him as though he’s a monster.

He continues on without speaking. The hospital wing is only minutes away.

The only sound in the hall is that of his own footsteps pounding steadily against the floor, until a raspy moan erupts from the bundle in his arms.

“Erghh.” She says, squirming restlessly.

“We’re almost there, Potter,” he assures her, picking up the pace.

She continues to groan and twist within his arms, trying to escape from his grasp.

“Stop moving,” she whines.

He feet stop at once, and he turns back to stare at her.

Her eyes are clenched shut again and she’s shaking violently. Her face is a pale shade of green.

“I’m gonna be sick,” she murmurs.

Before he has a chance to react, she turns her head and vomits, slinging bile and half-digested food down his pantlegs and onto his shiny black shoes.

He crinkles his nose in disgust, trying to hold back the angry words that threaten to spill from his mouth.

She’s injured. She’s a child. She’s been subjected to torture and the Cruciatus curse. It’s no wonder she’s ill. Do not scowl at her. Do not berate her. Just keep walking.

He keeps his head held high and keeps moving, not daring to look at the girl.

Ignore the squeaking of your shoes. Ignore the eye-stinging stench of vomit that clings to your clothes. Just keep walking.

He tries this, for a moment, but then the girl is looking up at him with inquisitive eyes, looking a bit frightened.

“Are you going to be sick again,” he asks darkly.

“I don’t think so… I’m really sorry, sir,” she says hesitantly.

He grunts tersely in response,

“I can tell your mad… I don’t blame you. You can yell if you want. I’m not made of glass.”

There is a sliver of uncertainty in her tone, as if she doesn’t truly believe her own statement. But he knows what she’s said is true. No one who has endured what she has endured could ever be considered fragile. She is strong.

“It’s not your fault.”

“When has it ever mattered if it was my fault?” she asks, staring up at him curiously. “I still did it.”

Damn those eyes. “Did you intend to splatter me with vomit?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“Well, no.”

“Then don’t worry about it.”

The two of them continue down the hall in silence, still listening to the irritating squeak of his vomit-covered shoes, until they reach the door to the infirmary.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

She pretends not to see the way they look at her. The frightened expressions. The pitying glances. The nervous flashes of panic that mar their familiar features. They all look at her like she’s someone else. Perhaps she is.

She feels changed. Broken. Mutilated. Malformed. Everyone else must see it too.

A handful of people flit in and out of her room after Snape drops her off in the infirmary. They all tiptoe around her. They say I’m so sorry. They whisper to each other when they think she’s asleep. But she doesn’t sleep. Not really.

She doesn’t do much of anything anymore.

Madame Pomfrey tries to make her talk, wanting to know if she’s in any pain. Harry doesn’t tell her that she feels pain everywhere, that the pain seeps into her blood and flows through her veins, that she hurts so much that she barely feels anything at all. She can’t tell the mediwitch that even though she’s given her multiple potions to numb her injuries, she still feels _Him_ on her and around her and in her. So, she answers by slowly shaking her head.

Dumbledore tries to make her talk. He wants to know what happened in the graveyard, how she survived, what exactly Voldemort said. He stresses that every detail of what occurred is extremely important, and she needs to tell him everything. She could reveal what she experienced, but she knows that Snape was there, and he has undoubtedly relayed that information already. She can’t tell him how she survived, because she doesn’t have the slightest idea. She refuses to repeat the vile words that _He_ spoke. Harry does everything she can to keep Voldemort’s voice out of her head, but it reverberates through her subconscious, taunting and laughing and moaning as if it’s playing on repeat. Instead of answering any of the questions, she rolls over in the cot to stare at the wall, claiming that she’s too tired and she doesn’t remember.

Fudge tries to make her talk. He wants to know what **really** happened, why she’s spewing ridiculous stories, and why Dumbledore is pretending to believe her. She can’t bring herself to respond to the man. He’s seen her medical charts. He knows she’s been injured. Yet, he seems hellbent on proving that she’s making the whole thing up. The Minister eventually storms out of her room after she stares blankly at the wall without responding for nearly half an hour.

For all others who visit, terse responses are all that she offers; Yes, no, maybe, and I don’t know. She does not recount the events that transpired, not even to herself. Harry tries distancing herself from it as far as she possibly can. On some level, she knows this is not healthy, but she can’t bring herself to care.

Today, Ron and Hermione are allowed in to see her for a few minutes. Hermione becomes instantly distraught when she sees Harriet, crying and fussing as if she’s dying. Ron doesn’t say much. He stands off to the side uncomfortably.

She knows that they have no idea what really happened to her. She’d made Dumbledore promise not to tell anyone the details of her injuries. However, she can’t quell the gnawing feeling that they know, that they can somehow see through her dressing gown, and make out the name carved into her flesh.

Harry tries to make small talk, tries to make herself forget what has happened so she can prove to her friends that she’s alright, but the words won’t come. She ends up staring awkwardly at them with her arms folded protectively across her chest.

Her friends are still standing there when Sirius bursts into the infirmary. He crosses the room in seconds, his face ghostly-pale and full of concern. What would he think of her if he knew?

Her godfather strides past Ron and Hermione and pulls her into a tight hug. She can’t stop the immediate grenade of panic that explodes in her stomach at the sudden contact. She feels trapped within his sturdy arms, and the comfort that she hoped to feel never comes.

“Oh, Harry,” he whispers into her hair. “I was so worried about you.”

He cups her face gently with his hands, assessing her for injuries. “Are you alright? What did they do to you? I swear, I’ll kill them all.”

He stares into her eyes intently, and she struggles to decide which question to answer, but she can’t focus. There are hands on her.

“I… uh,” she stutters, gasping for the air that seems to have left her lungs.

“Harriet?” He questions, his eyes wide. He takes a step back from her, giving her room to breathe.

This is just enough for Harry to maintain her composure. She presses her lips into a firm line and says, “I’m fine.” Her tone is not confident, nor convincing, but Sirius looks too frightened to argue with her. Instead, he pulls a chair up to her bedside and plops down in it.

“Harry, what did they do to you?” He asks seriously. “Dumbledore barely told me anything.”

She keeps her mouth closed tightly, her gaze wandering first to Ron and Hermione in the corner and then back to her somber looking godfather. She can’t tell them. No one can know.

“I’m really tired. I need to go to sleep,” she murmurs, sinking down lower in the bed and shutting her eyes tightly. The room is tense and quiet as its inhabitants shuffle around awkwardly. After a few moments, they are all escorted out by Madame Pomfrey.

In the empty room, with her eyes clenched shut, she sucks in several shaky breaths.

In… and out…. In…. and out…

She has to keep reminding herself how to breathe. Whenever she relies on her body to do the work itself, she becomes light-headed very quickly. As she is taking in air robotically, a set of footsteps break the silence in the room. They grow closer and closer until she can tell someone is right beside her. Her breathing hitches, but she doesn’t dare open her eyes.

She hears something being placed on the table next to her bed, and then the intruder retreats. The door clangs shut, and she hesitantly scans the room. A vial of purple liquid rests next to her cot. A small label attached to its side reads: **Dreamless Sleep Potion**.

So, it had been Snape.

The man had come back to visit a few times, bringing various potions to the mediwitch and being careful not to look Harry in the eye. She couldn’t pretend that his lack of acknowledgement hadn’t hurt. It made her feel like even less of a person. But she couldn’t blame him for not looking at her. He had been there, and he knew everything.

Perhaps that was why he had been so patient with her earlier and why he’d spoken with such a strange emotion in his voice. Was it guilt? Could the git who’d tormented her for the past four years actually feel bad for not helping her. Had he wanted to step in? It seems ridiculous, but she can’t help wondering if it’s true. After all, the man had saved her life several times within the past four years. He’d never been happy to see her, but he made sure she was alive, and he’d even protected her from a werewolf last year. If he hated her as much as he pretended to, he probably would have let Remus tear her to bits.

She’d even heard him talking with Madame Pomfrey last night. They had believed that she was asleep, but her eyes darted wildly behind her closed lids as she listened to the Git of the Dungeons asking about her condition. He sounded genuinely concerned, and he offered the mediwitch several different potions he thought could improve her condition. So, maybe he isn’t a traitor.

Or maybe it is all an act. Perhaps he is just waiting for the perfect opportunity to take her back to _Him_. She shudders.

Despite her concerns about his loyalty, Harry still picks up the vial and takes a swig of the purple potion. She instantly feels calmer and settles back onto the pillow. Her eyes drift shut and a peaceful wave of sleep crashes over her again.

            Harry wakes far too soon, feeling no more rested than before. It’s as if she’s constantly drained of energy. She stares out the window for several hours, wanting to cry, to let out some of the pent-up emotion that she’s been feeling, but her eyes are dry.

“Good morning, Ms. Potter,” the mediwitch greets, striding over to her. She hands her the pain potion that tastes strongly of dirt, and Harry chokes it down without saying a word.

“It’s the last day of term you know,” Madame Pomfrey says casually. “I’m sure Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley will be by to see you soon.”

Harry continues to stare out the window. From this angle, she can see the twinkling, blue lake reflecting sparks of sunlight. It’s actually rather pretty, but she can’t seem to enjoy it. It just reminds her of the second task… and Cedric.

“You don’t have to see them,” the mediwitch continues. “If you’d rather not have company, I can tell them that you’re not feeling well.”

The older woman seems to be waiting for an answer, and when Harry doesn’t give one, she sighs and turns back to organize a shelf of vials.

It isn’t long before Ron and Hermione burst through the doors and plop into the chairs at Harry’s bedside.

“Hi, Harry,” Hermione starts as if she’s talking to a small child. “How are you feeling today?”

Harry had planned to block out the conversation, but at Hermione’s words she wants to scoff. How is she feeling? How is she feeling! She feels like shit. She feels like her fucking soul has been sucked out of her body. Like someone has raped her and taken a fucking knife to her chest. Rage bubbles in her cloudy eyes.

Hermione must not see the change in her demeanor because she reaches out to gently place her hand on top of her friends.

Harry flinches backward and nearly falls off the side of her cot. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses sharply.

“I.. I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t think.”

Madame Pomfrey steps closer and looks at Harry strangely. “It’s alright Ms. Granger. She’s still quite shaken after what happened. She won’t let me or anyone else get near her either.”

Harry hears the sound of sniffling coming from Hermione. For Merlin’s sake. She’s so emotional.

“Mione, maybe we should go,” Ron suggests.

“You’re right,” she says sullenly. “Bye Harry. I hope you get to feeling better. I promise I’ll write you this summer. You can talk to me about anything. Nothing about what happened if you don’t want. I just mean that I’ll always be there if you do… want to talk about it.”

“Bye, Harry,” Ron adds sadly. He looks like he wants to say more, but he seems to recognize that Harry wants her space.

Harry watches their retreating forms until they disappear behind the closed door. Then she turns back to the window.

Sirius comes by to visit a few days later, bringing along a bottle of butterbeer and a tray of treacle tart. Ordinarily, she would have appreciated the gifts, but now, she ignores them, and they sit untouched on her bedside table.

He tells her a few stories about her parents, but she doesn’t bother to listen. His voice sounds like a constant ringing in her ear. She wishes he would leave.

But then he says something that throws her off guard. “Guess this’ll be the last time I get to see you for a while. Albus said it wouldn’t be safe for me to visit at your relatives’ house. I think I’ve got somewhere I can stay for the Summer though. Maybe you could write to me if you’re feeling up to it.”

The Dursleys. They were really going to make her go back to the Dursleys. What about all the potions she needed and her checkups? But now that she thinks about it, Madame Pomfrey hasn’t been giving her many potions anymore, not even the dreamless sleep, and her checkups haven’t been nearly as thorough either. She must be nearly healed.

“I have to go back to the Dursleys?” she asks. Her voice sounds shaky as if she’s almost forgotten how to use it.

Sirius seems startled by the sudden noise, but he turns calmly toward her.

“I’m afraid so, kiddo.”

“But why? Can’t I just stay here or go with you?”

“I’m sorry. I already asked Albus. He said it’s not safe for you to live with me yet. But like I said, we can write. I should be able to stay in better contact with you since I’ll have a permanent place to stay.”

Sirius is smiling warmly at her, but she wants to scowl or better yet, sob. He’s really going to throw her to the wolves. He knows how much she hates the Dursleys, but he still won’t let her stay with him. Who cares if it’s not safe? It’s not that safe with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia either. They hate her!

She stares at him coldly, and his smile disappears.

“It’ll be alright. It’s only for the Summer. You’ll be back at Hogwarts before you know it.”

Harry rolls over to the other side and curls up beneath the covers. She shuts her eyes and pretends that she’s asleep. No, not asleep. Dead.


	6. Chapter 5

Day 1

The ceiling is grey. Just like the walls. Just like the ratty sheets. It’s a grey world. She wishes that her prison was any other color. Black or white or yellow or blue. None of those colors would mean something to her. But it had to be grey.

Harriet stares straight up. She’s sprawled out on the lumpy bed in one of Dudley’s old, stained t-shirts; it fits her like a knee-length dress. Her ratty, dark hair is jumbled beneath her and on her chest and across half of her face, but she has no desire to brush it away. She has no desire to do anything. Harry doesn’t know how long she lays staring up at the grey, but it must be hours. The sky outside her window has turned from dark to light.

She’d arrived at the Dursleys late last night. Knowing that there was nothing she could say to the headmaster to make him change his mind about leaving her there, she’d stayed silent. Dumbledore had apparated her to the Dursley’s doorstep, escorted her to her room to drop off her belongings, and then left her with a somber goodbye. She wondered if he’d noticed the sorry state of her room or the locks on the door or the cat flap. He must have; It was pretty hard to miss. He hadn’t mentioned it though.

Harry wonders if he’d said something about what happened to her to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. She had thought she heard them talking after he’d closed her door. She hopes that he hadn’t. If they knew about it, they’d probably be even crueler than usual.

The clicking of shoes growing nearer draws her attention away from the ceiling. Her Aunt throws open the door with more force than necessary and sticks her long nose up in the air.

 “Get up girl! Make yourself useful,” Petunia spits from the doorway. “The garden needs a lot of work. That should take up most of the afternoon, and then you can start on supper.”

The woman’s sharp features are pinched even more so than usual, increasing her resemblance to a horse. It is clear why she is so irritated this morning. Generally, Harry had always been up at the crack of dawn, ready to start her chores. Her aunt rarely ever had to come wake her. But that had been then.  Now, she just didn’t care. Let her aunt be angry. Why does she care if the woman refuses to feed her?

“Did you hear me? Get outside, now!”

Harry rolls her eyes. Screw the chores and screw her. If she wants the garden cleared, she can do it her damn self.

“Alright then. No food for you. I won’t have you freeloading anymore, and Vernon will hear about this,” she says, slamming the door behind her. Harry hears the sharp click of the lock, and a bitter coldness settles in her chest.

She’d wanted the woman to get angry. She’d wanted her to leave. So why does she suddenly feel abandoned by her aunt? It’s not as if she expected Aunt Petunia to comfort her or even to be kind. Still, Harry can’t help but feel the rejection. The woman had barely glanced at her. It was almost like she had been too repulsed to look at her.

Harriet spends the rest of the day staring up at her ceiling, wondering how the hell she ended up here. Could she have done something to prevent this? Anything? Could she have saved Cedric? Could she have protected herself?

Harry knows she shouldn’t, but she regrets sending Hedwig to the burrow. Something about talking to her pet had always made her feel a bit better. Now, she is trapped in this room. Alone.   In the corner, where her owl’s cage normally sat, is only a tall waste bucket that Aunt Petunia had left so she wouldn’t have to let Harry out to use the bathroom. Harry scrunches up her nose at it in disgust.

Harry wishes so much for a mother. She wants, no needs, someone she can talk to. Someone she can confide in about everything. Someone that won’t judge her or make her feel uncomfortable. She just wants someone to hold her.

A figure emerges out of the grey haze. Her face materializes from nothing until Harry can make out dark red curls and emerald eyes. The woman’s mouth turns up slightly in a sad smile, and a sheen of tears make her striking eyes sparkle. Then, pale arms drop from the ceiling and curl around Harry. Long fingers run through Harry’s messy hair, and she feels the warm breath of a mouth pressed to her ear. “It’s okay, baby. Everything will be okay,” the woman whispers, rocking her slowly back and forth.

Harry feels safe for the first time in over a week. A weight lifts from her chest. Breathing comes easily. She wants to stay here, where it’s warm and safe, forever.

Then the door to Harry’s room flies open, breaking her concentration. The beautiful woman dissolves into the grey. No. No! Come back, Harry pleads internally. But she’s gone.

The coldness is back. Ice floods through Harry’s veins. Her bottom lip begins to tremble uncontrollably. Her body arches with the force of a violent sob, and then she can’t stop. Harsh sobs wrack her small body. Her stomach explodes with pain, and she wraps her arms around her middle to keep herself from tearing apart. She can’t stop convulsing, but no tears fall from her eyes; somehow, this makes her feel worse.

“How dare you refuse to,” a fuming voice begins.

Vernon stands in the doorway, an angry expression already planted on his face. However, when he catches sight of Harry, he looks slightly embarrassed, as if he’s walked in on something he never intended to see. His wide face melts with confusion, and Harry withers under his gaze.

She wants to stop, but she continues to sob so hard that she can barely catch a breath. Humiliation washes over her, and she pulls the ratty blanket up over her head, so that Vernon can only see her outline quaking underneath the blanket. Soon she hears retreating footsteps and the door closes again. No one comes anywhere near it for the rest of the day.

Day 2

All night and throughout the morning Harry stares straight up, waiting for her savior to return. She keeps her gaze upward, barely blinking until her eyes burn with the effort. She doesn’t dare let them drift closed for the fear that she will miss her. But it’s her mother, so she knows she’ll come back. Her mother wouldn’t leave her again. So, Harry doesn’t give up.

Her mother never comes.

Aunt Petunia shoves a can of tomato soup through the cat flap when the sun is nearly at its peak. She doesn’t speak or knock. She just throws the can into the room and retreats.

Harry sighs with disappointment and gets up to retrieve it. Her limbs feel heavy and foreign, and she stumbles uncoordinatedly on her way to the door. Without hesitation, she yanks the lid off and drinks the liquid down like a shot. The cool soup slithers down her throat and lays in her stomach like lead. She wishes she hadn’t eaten anything at all.

Then, it’s back to the bed. Back to the grey. She removes the new glasses that Madame Pomfrey had given her in the infirmary; she’d rather not see the world so clearly anyway. She stares until her eyes glaze over with exhaustion. She stares until she’s sure the grey isn’t really ceiling, it’s sky. She stares until she can practically see hazy clouds drifting in and out of her periphery.

And then, out of nowhere, appears an arm. Then another arm. And then, finally, a face. It’s the same face from yesterday. The same vermillion curls. The same green eyes. But the expression is not one of sadness or comfort.

“Mum,” Harry whispers, reaching for one of the outstretched hands.

The woman pulls her arm back as if anticipating a slap, and her blank face morphs into pure revulsion.

“Mum? Please…” Harry begs. “I need you. Please hold me.”

Harry is confused. Why does her mum look at her so strangely? Has she done something wrong?

“Why would I do that?” The woman asks. “Why would I ever get near you? You disgust me.”

Harry can’t breathe. “No. Mum. You have to help me.”

The woman scoffs and her eyes narrow maliciously. “Help you?” she spits. “I can’t help you. You deserve to feel like this. You deserve everything.”

Harriet can’t speak. Her tongue is frozen to the roof of her mouth. “No,” she mouths, but no noise escapes her.

Then her mother is laughing. Not a light, joyous laugh. It’s a cold, dark sound. It reminds her of _Him._ “You deserve this. You’re trash. You’re worthless,” she chuckles.

Her tone is sharp. Her words seem to cut straight through Harry’s skin and into her stomach, turning and whirling around her insides, leaving her completely hollow.

She won’t stop laughing. It gets louder. Faster. Closer. Her voice grows distorted. Muddled. Higher. It whirls all around, bouncing off the walls, echoing so loud that Harry throws her hands over her ears. It won’t stop. Make it stop!

Harry clenches her eyes closed, convinced that that will make her mother disappear. And she does. But what’s left in her place is much worse, and all the air leaves her lungs.

It’s _Him,_ Voldemort. His claw-like hands spring through the ceiling and tangle around her. She’s trapped. His red eyes capture her green ones, and she can’t look away. She can’t close her eyes. His giggles bounce around the room and through her skin. The air in the room is gone. She’s choking. She tries to open her mouth to suck in a breath, but she can’t remember how. Her jaw is wired shut. It’s growing hot, so hot. The sweltering air is swirling. His hot breath is on her neck. She can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t think.

Harry’s lungs burn and scream at her. Her eyes bulge from their sockets. Her hands fumble for something to claw at, some way to defend herself. She swings wildly. She tries to hit him, but her hands fly right through his flesh. Her failure amuses him. His eyes burn brighter with delight. His laughter grows louder.

He reaches for Harry’s shirt and tears it open. The words. “Lord Voldemort” are bold and burning and out for everyone to see.

Harry fights with everything she has. But her arms won’t move. Her legs won’t move. Her head won’t move. She’s powerless.

And then, as if a switch has been flipped, Harry’s jaw opens wide, and she lets out a long, shrill screech.

And then she wakes up, sweating and tangled in the blanket.

Day 3

Harry can’t stay in this room any longer. The slightest glimpse of the color grey sends her shaking with fear. She’s forced to keep her head down low, looking at the beige carpet. The floor is covered in dirt and dust and several stains that Harry can’t identify. She lays her head down on the bristly carpet, not minding when it scratches her face.

Then she spots a tiny, rectangular object poking out from under the bed. Upon further inspection she recognizes it as a bobby pin. Last Summer, she had experimented with different ways to try and tame her hair. She’d snuck into Aunt Petunia’s bathroom and grabbed a few things to try. None of them really made much difference. Her hair was naturally messy. It would always be wild and in her face.

Harriet picks up the object, and stares at it in wonder. She’s heard that hair pins can be used to pick locks, and she’s seen it done on one of Dudley’s television shows before. She just has to shove it into the lock and jiggle it until the lock turns. It didn’t look too hard on TV.

So, Harry waits at the door, still not looking at the grey walls. She scarfs down another can of soup that Aunt Petunia brings at noon. She watches as the carpet gradually darkens with the disappearance of the sun. Then, once the noises of the Dursleys settling into bed are long gone, Harry jams the pin into the keyhole.

It takes her longer to get the door open than she expects, but eventually she stands on the other side. She’s finally free. But where should she go? The realization that she feels just as trapped in the rest of the house, crushes her brief feeling of hope.

For a moment, she considers just going back inside the room. She’ll never be free from the things that have happened. They’ll follow her like a shadow wherever she goes. In the dark and the light, inside or outside, at the Dursleys or at Hogwarts, it will be there. She can never escape.

But what if she could leave it behind? A dark thought drifts into her mind like billowing smoke. Finally knowing what she can do, she smiles and tiptoes down the hall. She creeps quietly down the stairs. Then she maneuvers her way through the darkness to the kitchen. As if gravity has suddenly shifted, Harry’s feet pull her toward the utensil drawer in the corner of the room.

Her hands fumble for the knob on the drawer, and she yanks it open with more force than necessary. Her tiny fingers shoot out with excitement and curl around the handle of a knife, and she holds it up. She holds it up so high, that the moonlight streaming through the window shimmers on the surface of the blade. Its reflection lights a flame within her dark eyes.

Harry settles the knife above her pale, exposed arm. It feels much heavier than she thought it would, and her hand trembles in the air.

“I can do this,” she whispers to herself and visualizes the path of the knife. It’ll be quick, she thinks. A few deep cuts, and it’ll all be over. All of it.

With a shaky breath she presses the cool tip of the dagger into her wrist, and then makes a quick slice.

“Shit,” she stammers frantically and staggers backward. Her back slams into the counter and her hands flail, trying to find a way to stay upright. The knife escapes from her grasp and clangs to the floor. Her left arm slams into something solid, and sends it toppling off the countertop. It smashes on the ground, spreading shards.

Blood spills down the length of her arm, but it’s not enough. Not enough blood. Her cut is too shallow. And she wants to cut again, but the burning in her arm is overpowered by the burning in her chest. The burn of two words. And she can’t pick up the knife. The knife is like _His_ knife. It is the same dagger, stained with her blood. And the mess is all around her. And there’s no escape. She hears heavy footsteps on the stairs. They’re coming. They’re coming.

Harry crumples to the floor and draws her knees up to her chest. She places her hand over her wound. Not deep enough. Too shallow. She’s failed. She buries her face behind lanky tendrils of dark hair, not bothering to look up when two figures enter the room.

The switch by the door is flipped, bathing her in light. She stays curled up pathetically on the floor, cradling her injured arm to her chest, so the gash is hidden.

“What the hell?” Vernon booms, lowering the baseball bat in his hands. “What are you doing out of your room girl? Stealing from us?”

“Vernon, she’s broken my vase,” Petunia squeals.

“Bet she used that freak stuff to break out,” he growls, and his face turns a violent shade of red. “I won’t tolerate that nonsense in my house!”

“What were you stealing?” Petunia asks. “I fed you today.”

“Wasn’t stealing,” Harry mumbles.

Vernon scoffs. “What’s that there?” He gestures to her left fist that’s buried against Dudley’s old t-shirt. “Show us your hands.”

She holds up her right hand.

“The other one,” he commands angrily.

Very slowly, Harry reveals her other hand. The crimson stain on her shirt becomes visible. New blood bubbles from her wound and trickles onto the floor.

Petunia gasps. Vernon spots the knife and bends down to retrieve it. He turns it over in his hands, staring at it in shock. Neither of the adults say a word.

Harry can’t stand the silence. It roars in her ears. It stings her skin. And suddenly, she just wants to hear anything. She wants to hear yelling and screaming. She wants to hear insults and accusations. She wants to hear why. Why they can stand there not saying a word. Why they’ve never looked at her with anything but disgust. The words tumble from her lips before she can stop them.

 “Aunt Petunia,” she whispers barely loud enough for the woman to hear. Her aunt turns to her, seemingly annoyed that Harry has the audacity to speak to her. Her eyes widen as she takes in Harry’s disheveled state. “Why do you hate me?”

The woman looks incredulously at her husband as if the answer is obvious. They share a panicked look, and she lets out a noise that’s half a grunt and half a snort.

“Was there ever a time when you didn’t? Did I do something? Please, just tell me. Please,” Harry cries desperately.

Petunia’s mouth opens and closes, but she utters no words. She turns away from the girl lying on the floor and takes a shaky step toward the doorway.

“If anything is missing in the morning, there’ll be hell to pay. And clean up this mess,” Vernon barks, dropping the knife onto the table before ushering a still-sputtering Petunia up the stairs.

Day 4

When the sun rises the next morning, Harry is seated outside in the damp soil, toiling over a weedy patch of flowers. She tears at the Earth with grimy fists, tossing pale green leaves over her shoulder.

She didn’t bother to go back to her room last night. After her aunt and uncle had abandoned her in the kitchen, she’d cleaned up her mess. The blood was wiped away. The glass was swept. The only indication that something had happened was the stained knife still lying on the kitchen table.

Harry found that the manual labor had helped her keep her mind blank. When she had a task to focus on, she didn’t think about her life. So as soon as she’d finished in the house, she’d walked barefoot through the backyard before dropping to her knees in front of the first rose bush. She hadn’t stopped working since then.

She works through the sweat that sprouts on her brow. She works through the thorns that leave scratches up and down her arms. She works through the fatigue in her limbs. Like a robot, she moves mechanically, not stopping until her job is done.

Harry wipes the back of her hand across her forehead to stop a dribble of sweat from running into her eye. She takes a few panting breaths and catches sight of something in the window. It’s Aunt Petunia. She looks shaken. Her skin is deathly pale, and her hair is messy and falling from its normally pristine, tight bun. When she sees Harry looking at her, she disappears from view.

Harry sighs. She’d never imagined that she would miss when Aunt Petunia had been angry and rude, but this distant, uncomfortable silence feels much worse.

Harry finishes all of the yardwork in the late afternoon, and her exhausted body collapses on the lawn. With her arms tucked behind her head like a pillow, she lets herself relax for the first time today. When she stares up at the sky, she is startled to find that the sun has disappeared. Very little light escapes from behind the clouds, leaving the sky looking hazy…. And grey.

And though she wants to look at anything else, wants to think about anything else, the sky draws her in. She lays there, paralyzed and numb.

Day 5

Harriet’s eyes flutter open only to be greeted by complete darkness. At least it’s not grey, she thinks bitterly, hoisting herself up from the dew-covered grass. Her limbs groan in protest, and she stretches, wincing when she hears the pops of her joints.

The few sips of water she’s had since coming to the Dursleys have failed to keep her hydrated, and she struggles to moisten her mouth. Her tongue feels dry and dead like it’s made of sand. Harriet shuffles toward the door to the house, but the handle won’t budge. It’s locked. The dry ache in her throat burns in response.

“The hose it is,” she mutters to herself and enters the garage.

Piled in the corner under a mound of assorted cords and boxes is the green watering hose, and she yanks it out of the pile, not bothering to tidy up the stray items that topple over. When the spicket has been turned and the water shoots powerfully into the air, Harry cups her hands out and brings them to her mouth. She feels instant relief as her tongue springs back to life.

Realizing that it’s been nearly a week since she’s had a shower, she decides to rinse off. She starts with her hair, which has started to resemble a black rat’s nest, and then moves on to the rest of her body. The water doesn’t help much with the smell of grease and sweat, but it does help to wash away some of the dirt that’s been accumulating on her skin. Finally deciding that she’s probably as clean as she can get without soap, she turns on the hose so that the water flows steadily into the garden.

She waits patiently for the light to come on in the kitchen so that she can go back inside. By the time her aunt finally traipses downstairs, the sun has peeked its head above the horizon and Harry is no longer drenched and dripping.

Her aunt locks eyes with her through the window, shooting her a disapproving look, and then traipses over to the door, opening it a crack.

“Come in and make breakfast,” she commands. Though Petunia looks more composed than yesterday, the paleness has not left her slightly-lined face.

Harry doesn’t argue. She doesn’t mind the work anymore. It will keep her busy, and besides, she will finally be able to sneak some food. She manages to eat an entire egg and a slice of toast without her aunt saying a word.

From there, she is sent to clean the bathrooms, then the bedrooms, and finally the living room. She is dusting in the sitting room when Dudley stomps in noisily with his friend, Pierce, laughing obnoxiously behind him.

“And so, I told him, if you’re gonna be such a twat about it I’m gonna knock your teeth in," Dudley says, grinning broadly.

“And what happened?” Pierce asks.

“I beat his ass,” Dudley guffaws. “Kid’ll be lucky if the doctors can ever get the dents out of his face.”

They plop down on the couch, still yapping about Dudley’s latest victim, and the television clicks on. The boys barely glance over at Harry dusting the fireplace mantle. She continues working, completely immersed in her work.

“Hey! Bring us some sodas,” Dudley suddenly screeches. His feet are propped up on the table, and he seems determined to keep them there.

Harry can hear her cousin’s commands, but she chooses to ignore them. It isn’t her job to wait on Dudley. She keeps her back turned to her cousin and continues her chores.

“Scarhead! Hey!” Dudley roars. When Harry doesn’t respond, he sighs and climbs off the couch. “Bloody useless.”

“What’s wrong with her,” Pierce asks. He’s studying Harry with a quizzical look as if he’s never noticed her before.

“She’s a freak. She’s always been a freak,” Dudley calls on his way to the kitchen.

Pierce frowns. “She seems stranger than usual.”

Dudley returns with two cokes in his beefy hands. “Yeah… Mum’s saying she’s crazy now,” he laughs and sprawls out on the sofa again. He chugs down most of his soda. Then, as if thinking of something particularly funny, he looks toward Harry with a devilish grin. “Scarhead! Hey!” He chucks the empty can at his cousin and it smacks her square in the back.

Harry feels the sudden pressure on her skin, and she whirls around. Who’s touching her! Why is someone touching her! She calms when she sees the can at her feet.

“You really slit your wrists?” Dudley asks.

Harry’s eyes flicker down instinctively, and she presses her wound against her chest, but she can’t bring herself to answer. Shame and humiliation bubble in her stomach.

“Wish you’d finished the job.”

Harry knows she shouldn’t be offended by his remark, after all, she had wished that she had the courage to end it too, but it still feels as though a block of lead has settled in her gut. She turns back to the fireplace. She needs the distraction.

“Oh c’mon, she’s gotta be good for something,” Pierce says, raising an eyebrow at the girl’s back.

“Ew,” Dudley retorts. “Really? Don’t you have any standards?”

Pierce shrugs nonchalantly and grins. “Not really.”

Just dust the mantle. Just ignore them, Harry thinks. She disregards the fact that the mantle is free of dust; she’s already cleaned it three times. She runs her rag over the surface again.

Harry doesn’t hear Pierce get up from the couch or notice his footsteps drawing nearer. But then there’s a strong arm clasped around her arm. Harry whirls around. Her fist automatically bolts forward. A crunching noise breaks the tense silence in the room, and Pierce stumbles back, clutching his nose.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Pierce roars.

“MUM!” Dudley yells at the same time.

Petunia comes hurdling into the room, looking startled. “Wha-” she begins. Then her eyes widen, she steps back frantically, and her hand comes up to cover her gaping mouth.

Harriet stands frozen at the front of the room with her arms curled tightly around herself. She’s shaking so violently that it could be mistaken for a seizure.

Pierce is still crouching on the floor, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his crooked nose and staring up with confusion and anger. Harry meets his gaze, her green eyes blazing.

“DON’T EVER TOUCH ME!” She screeches.

The television lets out a fizzing noise, and the picture goes black. The lights in the room flicker, emitting a fountain of sparks. Thunder sounds throughout the house, causing Dudley and Petunia to cower in fear. They can’t take their eyes off of the girl quaking in front of them.

Then, as suddenly as everything had begun, the television and the lights pop back to life, and the house is silent and still. The power Harry had released into the air suddenly slams back into her with the force of a truck. She sways on her feet, feeling lighter than air. With half-opened eyes, she lets out a quiet moan and then crumples to the floor. She lays there, unnaturally still.

“What the hell was that?” Pierce whispers, but no one answers.

 “Dudley!” Petunia says, tearing her eyes away from the unconscious girl. “Help me drag her outside.”

Without saying a word, Dudley stands up shakily and grabs his cousin’s thin arms. He winces when he sees the gash on her wrist still crusted with dried blood.

They drag Harry through the kitchen and out the door and place her next to a large shrub that shields her from view. The emotion on Petunia’s face is indiscernible as she plucks a stray twig from her niece’s hair.

She looks over at her son with somber eyes. “I think it would be best if we didn’t mention this to your father.”

Dudley nods.

Day 6

Harry wakes in the dark; she wishes that she hadn’t.

When she lifts herself from the ground, her head pounds viciously, and she claws at her temples to keep her skull from exploding. She draws in several deep breaths and places her head between her knees. The pain grows duller as the moments pass, and eventually she is able to rise.

But now that she’s on her feet, she has no idea which way to go. What’s the point of getting up at all? She knows that the door to the Dursley house will be locked, and the people inside are likely furious at her for her freakish display. Not that she wants to be in their house anyway.

Harry feels restless. She could walk around the neighborhood, but what’s the purpose? She has nowhere to run and no one to run to. She is alone.

And she wants to hope that this feeling will pass. And she wants to believe that things can get better. And she wants to think that somehow this whole fucking mess will just disappear. But she doesn’t. She can’t.

She’ll never have a family. The Dursley’s have made that perfectly clear. There’s just something about her, some particular quality, that makes it impossible for them to love her. It’s not something she’s done like she’d always hoped. It’s something that she is. And she can’t change that.

Harry paces back and forth on the lawn, lost in her own thoughts.

Perhaps her mother and father had loved her once, but they are gone. They are never coming back. And she has friends and she has Sirius, but they will never understand. She can’t tell them about what’s happened. They’d never see her the same again. They wouldn’t love her.

She can’t even love herself. And every time she tries, she’s reminded of what happened. She sees it all, just as vivid and gruesome as it had been in real life. She can’t escape the noises and the images and the pain. Harry hates herself.

She finally sees what her aunt and uncle have always seen. She’s disgusting. She’s worthless. She’s trash. All she does is fuck everything up for everyone else. She’s nearly gotten her friends killed in dangerous situations numerous times. She got Cedric killed for real. She’s a parasite, a leech sucking the life out of everyone she knows.

Harry trips over a hulking, brown root that has tunneled its way through the lawn’s surface and topples into the trunk of a large oak tree. She remembers that she used to climb this tree when she was little. She would clamber up as high as she dared and stare out at the world, wondering if she’d ever escape from the Dursleys, if she’d ever find a place where she belonged. Now, she knew that she never would.

Harry sighs and runs a hand through her tangled hair. What the hell can she do?

But then she’s looking at the tree again, and she has an idea. An idea so dark and so forbidden that she’s never allowed herself to consider it before. This is different than the knife. With the knife, she had known deep down that she might survive, that someone might decide to save her. But with this, she knows there will be no going back. She smiles.


End file.
